Monday, June 30, 2008


--This is another draft of the "Thus Begins the Writing Project" post on June 18th. I like this version much better.


Alone in his room he sits. Feet on the floor. Arm's on the rests. Eyes straight ahead. Breathing shallow. In his room he contemplates. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees the blackness that grease-like seeps in through the crevices of his life. Piling up as it oozes from the niches before it tumbles over under the pressure of the increasing dark pushing in behind it.

The piles grow and cascade, grow and cascade as more and more advances inward. Calmly, in his chair the chill warmth of the blackness slowly pools around him then climbs, enveloping his legs and the legs of his chair. Absorbing the pain of wanting to run away. Growing warmer from the anguish.

Unmoving he is increasingly submerged in the ebony. Thinking his thoughts. Being his nothing. He remains seated. The blackness swallows his lap as the magma flow continues. Urges long gone. Extinguished, denied, or unfulfilled.

It laps the armrests. Licks his fingertips. Morasses of regret of things that have slipped through his hands. Regrets of those left untouched. Eyes open. More blackness, less light. It's inexorable. Unblinking, he sits.

It consumes his abdomen and gnaws its way up his chest. The heartaches. The forlornness. The unpatchable cracks. The cavities. It feeds. It caresses. It comforts in its seductive way. It is legion.

It has found its way around him this amniotic dark. How long before it finds its way into
him? Where it will stay. Where it will live until he dies and when they bury him, his carcass will feed it so it can wait, hibernate, and fester until it finds its next host.

He can no longer tell if the ooze is still rising around him or if he is submerging into it. It laps his chin. He wonders briefly if he should stand. It kisses his lips.